Mental Torture
by Artichokie
Summary: Emmeline Vance relives a horrific memory through a Pensieve.


**Mental Torture  
**_By Artichokie_

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The blankets were clean, Emmeline Vance thought absently as she laid face-down into the sheets covering her large bed. The soft cushioning pushed into her curves and muffled the sobs that involuntarily escaped her mouth. Pieces of her wavy, golden blonde hair stuck to the sides of her face from previous shedding of tears and over-exertion in an early-evening argument. Behind her closed eyelids, she relived the violence, shuddering unconsciously.

She couldn't even remember what prompted the argument. She'd never seen his anger before, never thought it could be so fast-coming. Oh, sure, she'd sensed it, but never once imagined he'd ever let it out on her. More fool her.

The only thing she could really remember about the argument was the outcome. They'd been standing toe-to-toe, both yelling at the top of their lungs. She'd been trying to calm him; he'd be shouting about things she didn't comprehend. Then, without warning, he'd lashed his hand across her face in a blistering blow. She'd twirled and fallen face-first down onto the bed situated behind her. She'd barely heard him leave, although how that was possible she wasn't sure. He had no trouble slamming every door he passed.

But she hadn't known what to expect, not really. After all, this was her first boyfriend. This was the first male she'd trust enough to allow into her life. She thought he was safe; he'd always been a sort of a recluse, a sensitive soul. His anger had truly been a shock.

How could she have let this happen? She'd grown up aware of the fury of the male species and the repercussions it could have, not only physically but mentally, as well. She'd lived most of her life vowing to herself that she'd never feel the sharpness of a male fist upon her body. How had it gone so wrong?

She'd lost sight of her vow, of what was important to her. She'd allowed herself to become blind and had fallen victim to a pretty face. Hadn't this happened before?

She lifted her face away from the sheets and propped herself up on her elbows. Her hands diligently worked to wipe away stray tears and the remaining sweat. She brushed the stray hairs off of her face and tucked them neatly behind her ears.

"No more tears," she told herself, taking a deep breath inward. She pushed herself up and sat upright on the edge of the mattress. What could she do to set herself right?

She remembered she kept most of her memories tucked inside the liquid basin of a Pensieve. Over the years, her memories had started eating away at her until there wasn't much left of her humor remaining. She'd become so afraid, so leery, that it she just had to let go. And she did, with the help of the Pensieve.

Occasionally, she'd gone back to her memories through the device as a sort of mental torture. It was the only way she could think of to keep the lessons she'd learned fresh in her mind. She deliberately stayed away from the memories of her parents for those were the most painful. But now . . . perhaps now it was time to go back.

Emmeline stood and quickly exited the room. She kept the Pensieve locked away in a separate room, away from any prying eyes that may wish to reach into it. Her distrust of people was still intact, but . . . she berated herself for being too trustful of one so deceptive.

The surroundings were familiar to her, yet uncomforting. She was in her old childhood home, the one she had left years ago and never once looked back at. She didn't miss these white walls, didn't miss the rosy smells. The place was contradictory to what really went on within it.

She walked into the second bedroom and shut the door, locking it with a swift flick of her wrist. The Pensieve was kept in the closet on a pedestal, hidden behind a layer of clothing. One who was simply peering into the alcove wouldn't notice the legs of the pedestal at first glance, thanks to the darkness of the area. She pushed aside the clothing and walked to the bowl, glancing down into the liquid.

A glowing light settled in the bottom of the basin, the smooth liquid beginning to ripple. Emmeline pulled her wand from her sleeve, the place where she always kept it, and brought the tip to the rippling liquid. It quickly spread and a hole appeared. Within the hole, an image emerged. Without a pause, she leaned forward and fell head-first into the image.

To a stranger, the place held an ethereal essence to it—a place of happiness and innocence. But that was part of the façade Emmeline's mother had been trying to evoke. She used the decorations to cover up her pain.

To anyone living inside the small dwelling, however, it was the place nightmares were made of. Emmeline was an only child. She had no one to confide her fear in, no one to disappear when things got bad with. She only had herself, and sometimes that wasn't enough.

Standing in the hallway outside of her old bedroom, Emmeline stood, staring unblinkingly down the hallway. She knew what was coming. She had never been able to forget it.

Distant voices met Emmeline's ears. They were that of her parents. Her father's booming voice could be heard from miles away, Emmeline was convinced. He never spoke clearly, though; his rage tended to suffocate him and made his words come out as one.

A small creaking of door hinges next to her brought Emmeline's attention to her old bedroom. The door had been opened a crack. She didn't have to look down to know why, but she did anyway. A little girl—a younger version of herself, in fact—had opened it enough to be able to see out with one eye. Her small hand visibly shook as she held the door open, causing the door handle to slightly rattle.

This incident had happened the summer before Emmeline had been shipped off to Hogwarts. She had let this memory take root inside of her mind and grow, causing her to be wary of any male—young or old—with a deceptively gorgeous face. She vividly remembered how in the beginning she could barely speak in front of the male gender, but eventually got over it. She still didn't trust them—not even at her current age—and that was the main reason why she was so confused with herself at the moment.

A crash came from the end of the hallway. Emmeline peeled her eyes away from herself and looked toward the sound. Her mother now laid on the floor, her upper back resting against the wall. She had been thrown from the room that was directly in front of her—the room in which Emmeline's parents shared.

Her mother used to be beautiful, but had since fallen victim to aging and worry. Wrinkles lined her eyes and her mouth; her golden hair had started the graying process at her temples. Her body was frail, having endured abuse from her husband for the past decade.

As she laid slumped over, her body heaved in exertion. Small whimpers escaped her dry, broken lips. She rolled over onto her side so that she was now facing Emmeline, her head still resting against the wall. Her eyes were closed squeezed closed, expressing her pain; her lips were parted. An ugly bruise had already started to form beneath her left eye.

A burly man stepped out from the room and marched up to the crumpled woman. Emmeline's father was a lean man, his body built from his obsession to look better than the man standing next to him. He did have a beautiful face, one that appeared to be sculpted by angels. He had somehow managed to fight aging thus far for not a single wrinkle marred his face.

His light brown hair was cut short in a fashionable way. His skin was dark; he took many "business trips" to places where he couldn't help but tan, or so he claimed. His eyes were a dark blue—an exact match of Emmeline's own.

He had an abundance of charm and knew the exact moment when he needed to execute it. He played both his wife and his daughter like a fiddle. Emmeline was afraid of him; sometimes she thought he knew that and even relished in it. But still, he could coax her to his side if he needed to. He was just that good. It was only times like these when his charm seemed to fail him.

He reached down and grabbed Emmeline's mother by her arm, dragging her body halfway up his. She looked up at him, her free hand wrapping around his. The tears started flowing from her eyes—both from the pain due to her husband's harsh grip and the fear that was now apparently consuming her.

"Please!" Emmeline heard her mother cry out weakly.

"I'll teach you to talk back to me, you little bitch!" her father responded. Emmeline flinched as she heard her father's hand make contact with the side of her mother's face. He dropped her arm and watched her drop to the floor at his feet. Her mother landed on her arm, causing a cry of pain to escape her throat. She rolled her forehead on the carpet, burying her face into the flooring.

"Get up and cease your crying!" Emmeline's father snapped. Emmeline wanted to run up to him and plant her fists into his deceiving face. Her hands clinched at her sides in repressed anger. She wanted to reach for her mother and help her, wanted to lend her mother some of her strength. But she couldn't, and she silently cursed the Pensieve's limitations.

Emmeline's mother, still sobbing, pushed herself onto her elbows and eventually onto her hands and knees. Her body was shaking at her elbows, she was so weak. Tears now flowed freely down her face, streaking them with liquid lines.

Emmeline's father paced to his wife's side, now blocking Emmeline's view of the action. Emmeline walked forward, stopping directly beside him. She glared at the side of his face, his most illusory face. He wore a bored sneer, one that matched the crossing of his arms over his chest. He rested most of his weight on his right leg, his left leg bent at the knee. Emmeline's jaw tightened.

"Hurry up!" Emmeline's father shouted. Without waiting for a reaction from his wife, his left foot shot out from its restful pose and came into contact with the underside of Emmeline's mother's belly. The woman's breath shot out from her chest as her back arched with the blow. Her head shot up in response, her eyes now closed even tighter than before. Her tears had momentarily subsided as she struggled to bring in air into her gaping mouth.

Emmeline's mother fell to her side, clutching her stomach. Her knees were drawn up slightly, her bare toes curling into the balls of her feet. She finally managed to catch a breath of air in an echoing gasp. Her sobs weren't far behind as she cried out in agony when she first breathed outward.

"I said, cease your tears!" With that, he brought his foot to her stomach once more, this time managing to kick his wife's arms instead of making direct contact with her belly. Each blow made Emmeline's mother groan and gasp, but she endured it—not once ceasing her crying. But Emmeline's father was too lost in his angry and frustration to notice that. If he had, Emmeline was sure her mother's torment would have been worse.

"You bastard!" she shouted, knowing that he couldn't hear her. The urge to do something to him became overwhelming, and she would have punched thin air if it hadn't been for something else.

"Mommy!" Emmeline's younger self shouted as she shoved open her door and ran into the hallway. She ran straight up to her angry father and began kicking the back of his calf in the same manner he was kicking the child's mother. The kicks had hurt her more than him, Emmeline recalled, knowing that the little girl's toes had been slightly bruised after the slight beating she'd given her father.

Emmeline's father was startled by the new attack. He turned around swiftly and glared at his little daughter. Without a blink or any second thoughts, he swiped his hand down and across the child's face, sending her flying against the wall. Her head made a loud _thunk!_ sound against the barrier. It hurt, Emmeline knew that well, but didn't knock her out.

"Emmeline!" her mother shouted, bringing everyone's attention back to her. Before her husband could turn around, she threw herself at his leg and managed to pull it out from under him. With a growl of surprise, he fell forward and caught himself with his hands against the soft carpet. His breath exited his chest with a _whoosh!_, but he regained his breathing regularity with ease.

He turned back to his wife and glared. He shot to his feet and stomped towards her. She looked up at him from the ground, her hands now supporting her upper body against the floor. Her legs laid sprawled out in front of her; her eyes were glued to his now purple face.

He picked her up by the collar of her shirt with one of his large hands and brought her up so that their eyes were on the same level. He held her there, letting her legs dangle beneath her. He was much taller than her, much stronger, so lifting her had been no hardship.

Without warning, his free hand, his fingers now balled into a ferocious fist, came up and made contact with the side of her face. A sickening crack echoed in the hallway. For the second time in as many minutes, Emmeline's father dropped his wife haphazardly. She dropped listlessly to the ground, her legs folding beneath her. Her hands came up to cradle her now injured jaw.

Emmeline's father sent one last searing glare at his frozen daughter before he turned and exited the house completely. Emmeline was done; she'd seen enough. She let herself be lifted out of the scene and, before she knew it, was back inside of the closet.

She'd needed to re-witness that. It was that very incident that had pulled the vow out of her. As she'd watched her father storm out and her mother lay listlessly on the floor in front of her, she told herself she'd never be put in the situation her mother had found herself in. She'd never become a victim to a man's violence.

And she had. This argument tonight hadn't been the first one. It'd been the first time she'd been struck, but not the first argument. During each argument, she'd seen the simmering rage beneath his controlled façade. She knew he'd itched to strike her down, itched to take control of her. But she'd never be tamed, not by violence.

She couldn't stay here. She couldn't allow herself to stay in this relationship. Maybe some would call her stupid for giving up on a relationship over one incident, but she couldn't risk it. She was afraid that she'd lose her self-worth if she remained tied to this man. He resembled her father in personality so closely that they could have been long-lost brothers. And she did _not_ want to become her mother.

With her decision made, she swiftly walked out of the closet and out of the room. She wasted no time in barring her front door, not that she thought he'd actually barge his way in. He might, but she didn't want to take any chances. She'd speak to him tomorrow, but for now she wanted to have time to herself, time for her to build her strength over what was to come. She didn't know how nasty it would get, but she wanted to be prepared for anything. And she would be. Tomorrow.

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**Fin.**

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